Page 18

‘, you’re going straight to hell,’ smiles Al Bourne as he helps me ‘rehome’ some of the contributions for Parents’ Evening tonight into the food bank pile.

‘Well, at least I ain’t taking these crappy biscuits with me,’ I say, pulling a pack o’ ‘No Frills’ custard creams out of the charity box and swapping them for some posh florentines. It’s a sin, folk donating food they’d never eat themselves. No money don’t mean no taste. And offloading crap ain’t generosity.

‘Oh Christ,’ he says, holding up a plate of grey-looking cake slices. ‘Rosie’s made her choco-banana bread again. I don’t know what she puts in it, but last time I ate a slice my intestines ended up like the M25 at rush hour.’

‘Give that here,’ I whisper, and slide it straight into the bin.

‘!’ he cackles. ‘You can’t do that! She’s going to expect to see it tonight!’

‘And she will,’ I say, grabbing kitchen equipment like a marine assembling a rifle. ‘The secret is mayonnaise – works a treat. And still keeps you regular as clockwork. If I learned one thing in my nearly sixty years on God’s green Earth, it’s how to make a bloody moist cake in no time whatsoever. You just watch me . . .’

‘Wait a minute,’ he says, looking at me with the same cheeky look he’s had since he was a lad. ‘Nearly sixty? I thought you were fifty-seven . . . ?

‘Well, maths never were your strong point,’ I mutter, fuming to have let that cat out of the bag.

‘HATTIE!’ he roars like a great melon. ‘We have to celebrate! What are you going to do?’

I whip up my batter like it’s the devil himself, before putting in a great slug of cocoa. Stitchers wouldn’t let the kids have chocolate, so every time I put it in a pud it’s a nice way to raise two fingers to her.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to come to work, like I always do, do my job and not pay the blindest bit of mind . . .’

‘Your birthday’s 17 December,’ he says, looking at his phone. ‘Oh wow – that’s the Christmas Fayre!’

‘Like I say,’ I tell him, mashing bananas, ‘I’m going to do my job. It’s a day like any other. Sun’ll rise, go back down again and both me and the whole wide world will be one day older.’

He smiles and says no more about it.

‘Does it make you think about retiring?’ he asks. ‘I mean, this place is a lot. Although I can’t ever imagine you not working . . .’

‘Well, I bloody can!’ I tell him, chucking the mixture in a tin. ‘I’ve been working all me life! I was putting loaves in Ma’s oven before I could walk! And I been here woman and girl! I can’t wait to put me ruddy feet up! I’m off to Vanuatu!’

‘Sorry – what now?’ he asks with a grin.

‘Vanuatu,’ I repeat, setting the oven timer. ‘Island in the South Pacific. I read about it in the Economist . Middle of sodding nowhere. Just me, a palm tree and a pool boy.’

‘Sounds heavenly,’ he whispers. ‘I might run off with you. Whaddya say, – you and me drinking out of coconuts on the beach?’

‘Can’t think your Naomi’d think much of that!’ I hoot. ‘Can you imagine! That’d give ’em something to talk about! A handsome bugger like you running off with a school dinner lady who’s old enough to be your ma!’

‘It’d make a nice change from spellings and socks,’ he sighs. And this time he ain’t joking.

‘How is your missus?’ I ask. ‘Ain’t seen the doc around for weeks.’

‘You and me both,’ he says, his eyes trying to smile. ‘Sometimes I think the only way we’ll get to spend time together is if I have a heart attack . . . and with my lot that isn’t entirely unlikely . . .’

‘Oh, hush your mouth,’ I tell him. ‘You got lovely kids – and I’ve seen enough to know the difference, believe you me. Your little Leo came up to the hatch the other day and told me I made the best spaghetti bolognese in the world.’

‘Bloody traitor!’ he cries, adding another box to the pile. ‘He said that to me last week!’

‘He’ll go far,’ I laugh, putting the banana bread in the oven. ‘There. That’ll be done inside the hour. And I’ll even ice it like crap so no one knows it ain’t Rosie’s.’

Al puts the boxes down and comes over and gives me a big old cuddle.

‘You are this school, Hughes,’ he says. ‘Don’t go running off to Vanuatu just yet, eh?’

‘I promise,’ I sniff, a daft tear coming to my eyes. I can’t bear the thought of leaving this place neither.

So I’m gonna make damn sure I don’t.

‘Oh, get yer mitts off,’ I tell him, batting him away. ‘Save it for the pool boy. Now get on the business end of that crate and we’ll—’

‘What’s goin’ on here, then?’ that fool boy Andy pipes up behind us, making me jump near out of my skin. ‘You pair up to no good?’

‘Hey, Andy,’ Al chirps, and I don’t join him. I don’t like Andy. Something don’t sit right about him. He don’t belong here.

‘Whaddya want?’ I ask bluntly. ‘We’re busy.’

‘Just came to see if I could lend a hand, like,’ he says, waving his hands about like a bloody hypnotist. ‘It’s chaos here today.’

‘Don’t know how you tell the difference,’ Al says with a great soppy grin on his face. ‘But thanks, mate. Would you mind—’

‘We’re just fine, thank you,’ I say quickly. ‘Why don’t you go take your . . . help . . . someplace else. It ain’t needed here.’

I can feel Al looking at me, but I don’t look back. I got an instinct about folks. This boy’s gonna cause trouble.

‘Receiving you loud and clear, chief,’ says Andy, and I can hear the daft grin on his face. His voice lowers to a whisper. ‘But, if you are raising hell, let a lad in. I can spot a villain a mile off. And you, Hughes – you’re all kinds of naughty. And I like it.’

I shake my head as he slinks off.

‘What was all that about?’ Al says, swatting me with a cloth. ‘Not like you to be so . . . off.’

‘I don’t trust him,’ I say plainly, because that’s the best way to be.

‘Well, you’re not alone,’ sighs Al. ‘The knives are out for him with the Tiger parents, poor sod. I think he seems lovely. The kids love him . . .’

‘Kids don’t know this about that and nor should they,’ I remind him. ‘But, whatever he’s selling, I ain’t buying it.’

‘Got the memo,’ says Al, restacking the crates as the kitchen door thunders open again.

‘Ow! What the . . . ?’ rages Kiera as she storms in and walks straight into a crate. We ain’t spoken since her blow-out last week and she won’t apologise for it now. That’s just the way with her. You have to let her burn out like an oil fire. She means no harm.

‘Hey, Kiera,’ says Al amiably. ‘You okay?’

‘No I’m bloody not!’ Kiera shouts, grabbing her foot. ‘I think I just broke my bloody toe . . .’

‘Oh, babe,’ Al says, genuinely sympathetically. ‘Look – jump up on the side and take your shoe off – I’ll have a look. The chances are, you probably just—’

‘I don’t need your pity,’ she snarls – and there’s the problem with Kiera straight up. Proud as a peacock. And constantly getting in her own bloody way, the daft mare.

‘Oh, okay,’ says Al, poor lad. ‘Listen, Hatts, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got a meeting at Flatford General, so . . .’

‘You go on, boy,’ I say, patting his arm. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

‘Anytime,’ he smiles back. ‘See you, Hatts. Er, bye, er, Kiera.’

He skulks out, giving Kiera a wide berth.

‘Well, that was downright silly,’ I tell her, cos I ain’t afraid of her moods. ‘You’ve upset that nice boy. Whatever’s eating you ain’t his fault – you owe him an apology . . .’

‘Maybe,’ she mutters, in some small suggestion that she might see sense. ‘It’s just a crap day.’

‘How so?’ I ask, throwing her a cloth to help me with the drying up.

She sighs and picks up the mixing bowl.

‘We’ve put our house on the market.’

‘WHAT?’ I shout, spinning round. ‘Why would you go and do something daft like that?’

‘I can’t do it, !’ she shouts, angry tears starting to spring. ‘I can’t do it all! I can’t work all the hours God sends! I can’t pay the mortgage! I can’t give my girls what they deserve! I can’t keep running to stand fucking still! I can’t . . .’

‘Hey now, come on there,’ I say, grabbing some kitchen towel and taking it over to her. ‘This is no good. You can’t go getting yourself all het up like this. Come on now . . .’

I take her into my arms like I’ve done so many times over the years and let her have a good old snotty sob. There’s nothing quite like it. The oil fire starts to extinguish.

‘Now then,’ I tell her, standing in front of her. ‘Tell me what’s what and let’s see what we can do. You can’t sell your home. You’ve both worked so hard for it . . .’

‘I don’t have a choice,’ she sniffs. ‘We just can’t make the payments. We were struggling with the interest only, but now they’ve taken us off it . . . And the bills and the girls and the food . . . It’s never-ending.’

I hesitate before my next words. But she needs to hear them.

‘You do have a choice,’ she says. ‘You just don’t wanna make it.’

‘Not this again!’ she shouts. That girl’s fuse is shorter than a ruddy birthday candle. ‘Gracie IS going to Shottsford House! I’m not going to pull her out now! Not after all the promises I’ve made! Not after all her hard work! Not after everything I’ve done to . . .

She pulls herself up short. She don’t finish the sentence and I don’t want her to. The poor mite clambers back off the ceiling and draws a decent breath.

‘I’m just saying . . . Gracie is going to Shottsford House. And that’s the end of it.’

I shake my head. There’s no reasoning with the woman when she’s like this.

‘Are the girls okay?’ I ask. ‘About the house?’

She shifts uncomfortably.

‘I haven’t told them,’ she says. ‘No point until there’s something to tell. Once we know for sure the house is sold and what we can afford to buy, then I’ll give it to them all in one go.’

I nod – there’s sense in that, at least. Bad news ain’t no tastier in small portions. Best to swallow it down in one lump.

‘I’d better go – gotta get ready for Parents’ Evening,’ she says, dropping down off the counter and heading to leave. I grab her hand as she walks past.

‘It all comes out in the wash,’ I promise her softly. ‘You just see if it don’t.’

She nods her head weakly, the fight all gone outta her. It’s no wonder. She’s been fighting all her life. Fighting for a seat at the table. Fighting ‘The System’, if there even is one – it certainly didn’t care when a young girl got knocked up by a man who shouldn’t’ve been near her . . . Fighting to keep her baby. Who can blame her for running out of punches?

But I love that girl.

So I’ll keep on fighting for her.

There’s a gentle knock on the open door.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ comes Marcia’s gentle tones. I can see why she trained as a priest, she woulda been good at it. ‘But, , Clive was wondering if he could have a word?’

I roll my eyes to the heavens, as if He’s gonna help me.

‘You go,’ says Kiera, blowing her nose. ‘I can finish up here.’

‘Good girl,’ I tell her, giving her a squeeze on my way past. ‘Thanks, Marcie love . . . what does His Lordship want?’

‘No idea,’ says Marcia sympathetically. ‘But he said it was urgent.’

‘Urgent my arse,’ I mutter, flinging off me pinnie and stomping down the corridor to his office, like I don’t know exactly what Clive Baxendale wants to talk to me about . . .

I arrive at his door, pummel on it and let meself in without invitation.

‘,’ he says with that daft grin of his. ‘Thank you so much for making time for me.’

‘You’ve got one vegetarian lasagne and half a banana loaf,’ I tell him. ‘So you’d better make it snappy.’

‘Then I’ll get straight to the point,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘Earlier in the week, I became aware that someone had entered my office without my permission.’

‘Dear life,’ I say. ‘Bring back the gallows . . .’

‘Furthermore,’ he continues, his voice hardening, ‘since then I have become aware of certain . . . documentation going missing from my office.’

‘Sounds like you need a better filing system, Mr Baxendale.’ I smile at him. ‘Perhaps you should start with A. For, you know, arsehole . . .’

‘Don’t mess with me, ,’ he suddenly hisses, like a serpent striking. ‘I know you broke in here. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you immediately dismissed.’

‘Oh, I can give you more than that,’ I tell him, leaning forward meself. ‘In fact, I can give you fifty odd thousand. After all, that’s roughly what you’ve nicked from the school, innit? Give or take.’

For the first time in a decade, Clive Baxendale doesn’t know what to say.

Bugger me, that feels good.

‘This is defamatory nonsense,’ he says. He’s bluffing, sounding me out. I’ll play. ‘You have absolutely no proof.’

‘Funny thing living on your own, ain’t it?’ I say to him. ‘It’s the evenings what get to me. Only so much telly you can watch. I’ve read all me books twice. So I like jigsaw puzzles, me. I find they’re a super way to while away the hours, piecing something together, little bit at a time . . .’

I gesture towards his empty shredder.

‘Amazing what you can make from all them little pieces,’ I tell him. ‘Paints quite the picture.’

He takes a breath. I’ve got him.

‘What do you want?’ he asks, and it’s the only thing he can say.

‘My job,’ I tell him plainly. ‘You’re good at moving money around – and I got the paperwork to prove it. You find the money to keep me on – and I’ll have a pay rise while you’re at it. I’m long overdue.’

‘I want those papers back,’ he says.

‘And you’ll get ’em,’ I tell him. ‘But, like I say to the kiddies, if you can’t behave yourself, you ain’t getting no pudding. So I’ll be holding on to them for now. Just until I know you can be a good boy.’

He glares at me like I’ve just boiled his spuds. Good.

‘Well now, I must tend to me lasagne and I’m sure you’ve got lots to be getting on with too,’ I say, pulling myself out of his chair. ‘Although if I might make a suggestion?’

‘Go on,’ he says through a jaw that could strain spaghetti.

‘You might want to get yourself some decent security,’ I whisper with a wink. ‘That lock was as easy to pick as me front teeth . . .’